


Name

by Corpium



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Reese's - Freeform, Season 3, Time Travel, screw time travel, young!Peter Hale - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corpium/pseuds/Corpium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles goes back in time to save Paige and stop Gerard, he doesn't expect Peter Hale.<br/> <br/>TAKE NOTE:<br/>***The second chapter is the same story expanded by 6k. Read that one.***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Original 2k version

**Author's Note:**

> This is the original version. "Chapter 2" is the expanded one.
> 
> Please don't add/rate this on goodreads or copy/duplicate this outside of personal use.

When Stiles goes back in time to save Paige and stop Gerard, he doesn't expect Peter Hale. Young Peter's smooth and sneaky and just as creepy as ever, and even more straightforward about what he wants. It's not comforting.

 

Stiles is oh so subtly trying to spy on Paige and Derek when someone yanks him into an empty classroom. "Hey-" Stiles starts to whisper-shout, but then the door shuts and Stiles's face is slammed down against a desk.

 

"What do you think you're doing?" Peter's voice hisses in his ear -which, really, fantastic; the first time Stiles had seen him, Peter had already been watching him, and Stiles has spent the last few days avoiding him like the plague.

 

"Jeez," Stiles complains, ignoring the still-human fingernails digging into his scalp. "I transfer to a new school and I'm already being assaulted. Really?"

 

The pressure on the back of his head and neck lessens, and Stiles jerks upward. He dusts himself off with a scowl and looks up.

 

Peter's leaning against one of the desks, his fingertips tracing aimlessly across the surface. He looks up through his eyelashes at Stiles. "You're not a transfer student." He lifts his chin, nostrils flaring, and takes a step forward. Stiles holds his ground. "Your name isn't even Scott, is it?" Peter says, crowding into Stiles's space.

 

Stiles blinks and tries to take a step back, only to nearly trip over the desk. He scratches the back of his neck, saying "I don't -you have no idea what you're talking about."

 

Peter's fingers wrap around Stiles wrist. Stiles's pulse leaps, and Peter grins. The werewolf leans in. "You smell like me."

 

Stiles swallows and starts to shake his head, but Peter just leans in even closer, breath hot on Stiles's face. "I like it," he murmurs, and then he's pulling Stiles into a kiss. It's hot and dirty, and before Stiles realizes it Peter's tongue is exploring his mouth.

 

Peter pulls back, Stiles's lips chasing after his. He smirks. "What's your name?"

 

Stiles's mouth snaps shut, and he pulls back, gaze hard and determined. Peter just smirks, one hand sliding down to cup Stiles's tented jeans while the other fists Stiles's hair and tugs his head back. Peter licks a stripe up Stiles's throat. "Tell me," he demands, pressing down on Stiles's pants.

 

Stiles's jaw tightens, and Peter presses down harder, making him gasp.

 

The hand in Stiles's hair slips to the back of his neck, claws biting into Stiles's skin, just shy of drawing blood. "Come on," Peter whispers, lips brushing against the other boy's cheek.

 

Stiles's eyes flutter shut, and he takes a deep breath, and Peter can practically taste the way the name's going to fall from those lips, soft and reluctant and _hungry-_

But then the boy's shoving Peter away and tripping to the door, desks scraping loudly against the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says one last time, breathless and furious, and God, how Peter _wants_. And then the boy's gone, slamming the door shut behind him.

 

Peter smiles.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter's outside the distillery spying on the adults when movement flickers out of the corner of his eye. He turns his head to the side and stares into the darkness, and there, at the other end of the distillery crouching in the shadows, is his boy. Peter sniffs the air, but all he can smell is forest and dust and the long faded scent of alcohol. He cocks his head to the side. This mystery just keeps getting better and better.

 

 

0-0-0

 

 

Stiles waits for the packs to leave before he dares to move. He starts to stand up and freezes, wincing. "Jesus," he groans, flexing his calves and rolling his ankles.

 

"That's what happens when you lurk for hours on end," a voice drawls from behind him.

 

"Holy shit!" Stiles jumps up, whipping out a knife and settling into a fighting stance, knees slightly bent, one foot shifted forward. He eases slightly at the sight of Peter. "What the hell are you doing here?"

 

Peter raises his eyebrows. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

 

Stiles's face flattens, and his stance eases further. "You did not just say that."

 

Peter grins. "Too cheesy?" He asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

 

A grin tugs at Stiles's lips in response. He's missed this. "Too cheesy," he confirms. Peter takes a step forward, opening his mouth to speak, but Stiles cuts him off, looking pointedly between Peter's feet and his face. "I have a knife," he tells the werewolf.

 

Peter looks unimpressed. "I have fangs," he says, canines elongating. He takes another step forward, and Stiles steps back, back bumping into the wall of the distillery. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

 

Stiles holds the knife threateningly, but he knows he won't use it. Not unless this Peter actually does something dangerous. And after everything the older Peter's done back in his time, Stiles knows this Peter won't do anything. Not unless he thinks Stiles is a threat. And not while Stiles has so much of his attention.

 

Peter reaches out carefully, slowly, and his fingertips ghost up the blade of the knife. "Wolfsbane infused.... Interesting." Stiles inhales, and he wonders.... This Peter's so much younger than the one he knows; they're basically the same age now, and Stiles can't help but think about how the two Peters are different. Stiles's is older, broken, burnt and hardened inside in more ways than one. This one is younger, obviously, but he's just as manipulative, it seems, and his curiosity now is so much more, so much purer, and he's suspicious, but not so suspicious as to murder in the name of 'just in case'. Is it wrong that Stiles misses the older one?

 

Peter's fingers slide down the blade to rest on Stiles's pulse. "Penny for your thoughts?"

 

"How about no," Stiles snaps, tugging the knife back and slipping it back into its sheath. He pushes past Peter, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

 

Peter walks with him. "You never did tell me your name."

 

Stiles glances at him from the corner of his eye. "You didn't tell me why you were at the distillery. Or at the high school."

 

Peter shrugs. "I was checking in on my investments."

 

"Your investments?" Stiles can't help but ask before mentally beating himself over the head for not keeping his mouth shut.

 

Peter shrugs, smirking. "So what were you doing?"

 

Stiles grins, spying his car in the forest preserve parking lot. "Same as you. Checking in on my investments."

 

Peter drops his head to the side to pointedly side-eye Stiles. "Really?"

 

Stiles grins, returning the look. "Really, really." He reaches his car, an old Impala, and unlocks it, but before he can open it he's being whirled around and slammed up against the door, Peter's hand wrapped around his throat.

 

"I like you," Peter says, voice lowered and eyes burning yellow, "But from now on you're going to stay away from my family, or I'm going to tear you apart."

 

"I can't promise you that," Stiles says, unfazed. This isn't the first time he's been slammed up against something by a werewolf trying to make a point, and it definitely won't be the last.

 

Peter's fingers tighten around his throat, but Stiles doesn't react. The werewolf pulls his face away, eyeing Stiles calculatingly. "And why is that?"

 

"Because your family's the reason I'm here."

 

Peter's fingers tighten again, and Stiles whispers hoarsely, angrily, "I'm here to save them."

 

His heart rate's even, unchanging.

 

Peter pulls back and loosens his grip until his hand is just resting on Stiles's neck. "What's your name?" he asks again, his voice soft and curious.

 

Stiles side-steps him and opens the car door, smiling softly. He slips into the driver's seat, looking up at Peter. "I can't tell you that."

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Stiles knocks out Deucalion and his pack with a weak wolfsbane gas and goes to the distillery when Deucalion promised to meet Gerard.

 

Stiles hides in the rafters, an old video-recorder in his hands, and he films Gerard as he kills his own men.

 

Stiles hadn't taken the gas into consideration.

 

Stiles wakes up in a chair, his leg screaming in pain, his veins on fire, and the gas spraying on his face. His eyes burn and he scrunches them shut.

 

"Finally, you're awake," Gerard says over the hiss of the gas, and Stiles groans. Not again.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter leaves Argent on the floor unconscious and frantically drags the boy out, trying to block out his screams. He leans the boy against the distillery wall. "I'm sorry," Peter says as he pulls off the cloth wrapped around his mouth. It was a horrible gas mask; he's already feeling light-headed, but at least it gave him time to knock Argent out and save the boy. At least, he hopes he's saved the boy. The blood, moaning, and erratic heartbeat are all pretty bad signs. He pulls out his flip phone and speed-dials Talia.

 

The boy coughs hoarsely, eyes fluttering. "Peter?" he moans. "What-" he breaks out into a coughing fit.

 

Peter smiles. "You know my name."

 

Somehow, throughout all the coughing, the boy manages to roll his eyes.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Stiles wakes up to the feeling of fingers brushing through his hair. He feels like he's been hit by a tsunami. He groans.

 

The fingers pause, and the pain fades away.

 

Stiles lets himself sink into the bed, warm and comfortable, and the fingers brushing through his hair lull him back to sleep.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Next time Stiles wakes up, he's interrogated by Talia Hale.

 

She is terrifying.

 

She also gives the best hugs.

 

Stiles worships the very ground she walks on.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter's asleep at his bedside. Frankly, it's adorable. But not adorable enough to keep Stiles from getting up and using the bathroom.

 

When he slips back into bed and he's just on the verge of falling asleep once more, he hears Peter say, "You never did tell me your name."

 

Stiles smiles. "It's Stiles," he mumbles, and then he's out.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter's in the living room working on Calculus homework when Stiles walks in and swipes his Reese's cup. "Hey!" Peter shouts and promptly tackles him to the couch.

 

Stiles blinks up at him. "Woah," he says around a mouthful of chocolate, peanut buttery goodness.

 

Peter glares down at him. "Those are my favorite."

 

Stiles swallows and smacks his lips cheekily. "So?"

 

Peter's lips twitch upward. "I don't think you understand, Stiles. Those are my favorite." He leans in, mouth brushing against Stiles's. "I want it back."

 

And then his lips are attacking Stiles's, and his tongue is thrusting into Stiles's mouth, sweeping every corner of it, and Stiles's hands are buried in his hair, pulling him closer, and Peter's grinding down, and-

 

"OH MY GOD, MY EYES!"

 

Peter pauses and pulls away, looking up. Derek's standing in the doorway, the whites of his eyes showing, and Laura's grinning like a shark. "Go away," Peter tells them.

 

Derek bolts up the staircase without a second thought, and Laura eyes Stiles before looking up at Peter. She nods at him in approval. "Nice one."

 

Peter growls. "Go. Away."

 

Laura smirks and saunters into the kitchen, leaving her bag by the door.

 

Peter sighs and looks back down at Stiles. "Sorry about that."

 

Stiles's smile is practically glowing. "It's no problem."

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

"Do you miss him?" Peter asks, forehead pressed against Stiles's.

 

Stiles's eyes dart away. "...Sometimes. But..."

 

Peter waits patiently.

 

Stiles breathes in deeply and meets Peter's gaze, pressing against him more closely, his hand resting against the werewolf's chest. "We were never... anything. And he was... he wasn't sane."

 

"I'm not sane," Peter can't help but say.

 

Stiles grins like they share a secret. "Yeah, I know," he says, laughter in his voice. He sobers quickly. "But you're.... There was something inside of him that was dead, always dead, even when he came back, and you...." Stiles kisses him, soft and close-mouthed. "You're alive." He stares at Peter in wonder, almost as if he's still in disbelief.

 

Peter closes the gap between them and kisses him, soft and achingly slow, thorough and exact.

 

When the kiss ends, Stiles pulls back and looks Peter in the eyes. "If I had to do it all over again, I would," he promises, voice warm and firm, heart rate steady.

 

Peter smiles. "I know."


	2. Expanded version.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Name" expanded by about 6k words. Enjoy, and happy holidays!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some severe backtracking and editing, all this now takes place in 2003.

When Stiles goes back in time to save Paige and stop Gerard, he doesn't expect Peter Hale.

 

The logistics of entering high school again go about as well as he expected. A little illusion here, a little distraction there --getting in isn't a problem. It's Paige who's the problem. She and Derek are already sneaking around, and Stiles doesn't know how much time he has before she bites the dust. Stiles could just tell Derek about the future, he speculates, but given Derek's ability to follow advice, it probably wouldn't do much good even if he happened to miraculously believe Stiles in the first place. Also, revealing yourself as a time traveler --never a good idea. So no, Stiles would rather go the oh so much more reliable route of becoming friends with Paige and somehow convincing her that werewolves exist, and oh, by the way, she and her boyfriend need to have a serious talk. Because that's totally bound to work.

 

Not only that, but he has to find some way to stop Gerard's mastermind mini-genocide at some unknown point in time in the vaguely soon-ish future with the use of some unknown gas at a peace summit brought on by Deucalion, of all people. No biggie.

 

They're all doomed.

 

But still, given the future if Stiles does nothing, his tiny chance of changing the future by way of the past is worth a shot. Hopefully what people say about the butterfly effect is true.

 

So first things first: become friends with Paige.

 

More easily said than done.

 

Paige is aloof and focused on her studies --the classic intellectual introvert, and Stiles gets it, really, but Jesus, even introverts have friends. Seriously, they're the ones who are supposed to have the really close inner circles, but Stiles doesn't see that happening with her. And after sitting with her at lunch for the first time, it's easy to see why.

 

"Look," he finally says to her, sneaking a glance at Derek, who's watching them like a hawk as his uncle watches him in amusement, and honestly, Peter looks like he's in college, yet here he his, at Beacon Hills High School. What the hell is he even doing with his life? "I know you have a boyfriend," Stiles says quietly, leaning towards Paige. Shocked, her eyes flick up to meet his, and Stiles nearly rolls his eyes. The way she and Derek sneak off all the time is downright embarrassing. The whole school probably knew within the first week of their relationship. "And you two are adorable, really. Reminds me of my best friend and his girlfriend, honestly. So I promise I don't wanna get in the way of your relationship." Truly. He's a 34 year-old emissary in a teenager's body. No thanks. "You just seem pretty cool, and I think you'd be a good friend." She's still watching him suspiciously, so Stiles adds, "Or lunch-buddy. We don't have to be friends. Lunch-buddies works, too."

 

"Lunch-buddies?" she repeats skeptically.

 

"No, sock-puppet buddies. We can present shows in Sunday school for the kiddies," he deadpans. "Yes, lunch-buddies."

 

"You're not very good at making friends, are you?" she comments, looking back down at her textbook.

 

"Like you're one to talk," Stiles grumbles, picking at his food. There are many things he never missed about high school. School lunches are one of them.

 

They eat in silence for several minutes, which Stiles takes to mean that Paige has accepted his offer of friendship/lunch-buddyship. Lydia, he thinks, would jokingly lecture him about consent in relationships if he were to tell her this, but Lydia's part of the reason he's here in the first place, so whatever. "So," Stiles says, dragging out the word out. "What do you like to do for fun?"

 

"Practice my cello," Paige says, not even looking up at him.

 

Oh, god. "That sounds... fun," Stiles notes. Suddenly Derek's fascination with her makes so much more sense. She can provide the mood music for his brooding.

 

He glances over at Derek's table to see Derek looking at Peter, who's talking to his nephew while looking straight at Stiles, and oh Jesus, eye contact. Peter smirks, and Stiles jerks his gaze away to look down at his food, his ears burning. Goddamn his new/old teenage hormones. Stiles has always had a thing for overtly confident masterminds, something Lydia had always teased him about and something future!Peter had frequently used against him in the best/worst ways before the giant disaster Stiles is never thinking about ever again because no.

 

"I also enjoy long walks on the beach, poetry by Sylvia Plath, and crying myself to sleep at night," Paige says, flipping a page in her book.

 

"I --what?"

 

Paige looks up at him, mildly amused, and takes a sip from her metal water bottle. "You don't really think I play my cello for fun, do you?"

 

"Psh, of course not," Stiles sputters.

 

"Sure you don't," Paige says, and she begins to pack up her lunch. "You might wanna eat something," she tells him, nodding at his food. "The bell's gonna ring in five minutes." And then she ups and walks away, just like that, leaving Stiles alone with his bouncy hot dog and quite possibly moldy coleslaw.... At least he has an apple.

 

He takes a bite of it and winces.

 

It's waxy.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter watches as the new boy walks away, summoned by the bell along with the rest of the herd. His nephew pauses as he packs up his stuff, eyeing Peter suspiciously. "Why are you watching him?"

 

Peter meets Derek's eyes and grins. "I want him," he says simply, biting into his Reese's cup. He has an addiction, and he's not ashamed to flaunt it.

 

"Really?" Derek scoffs. "One of my classmates?"

 

Peter shrugs, unashamed. "The heart wants what the heart wants," he says sagely.

 

Derek just rolls his eyes, muttering, "Sure, whatever."

 

As Derek turns to go, Peter asks, "Put in a good word for me?"

 

Derek turns around with a grin on his face. "There are no good words for you."

 

This is true. Peter presses one of his hands over his heart. "You wound me, nephew. I think I'm going to cry."

 

Derek just snorts and walks away.

 

What a jerk. Peter smirks. He thinks he'll wait before he puts his Make-Paige-Official plan into action. He has a better project to work on.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

As Stiles walks "home" that first day at school, the skin on the back of his neck prickles like he's being watched, but when he looks more closely at his surroundings, down the sidewalk behind him, around at the surrounding suburban, cookie-cutter houses, then up at the sky, he sees nothing. But just because he doesn't see it doesn't mean it isn't there.

 

His apartment is a cheap little studio above the single coffee shop in downtown Beacon Hills, so instead of going straight home, he stops by for a coffee and decides to stay for however long it takes him to feel comfortable again. Besides, he has homework to make a moderate stab at, and while he'd like to believe that passing high school once means he'll fly by this time, high school in 2013 is not the same as high school in 2003, and his higher math skills have long since flown out the window.

 

So he grabs his coffee, splurging on an overpriced blended iced caramel latte because why the hell not (he's basically saving the world; he can cheat when it comes to money, he can drink the sugariest coffee he wants, and he can still be badass), and claims one of the comfy armchairs by the electric fireplace. Sure enough, fifteen minutes into his homework, the hair on the back of his neck rises, and in walks the young Peter Hale.

 

Stiles sinks into his chair. If Peter was the one making his spider-senses tingle earlier, Stiles is doing all right. Peter may be a nosy bastard, but he's not a monster out to murder Stiles, currently, at least, so Stiles figures he'll be fine.

 

Still, it _is_ Peter. Best to stay on his toes.

 

After getting a small black coffee and fixing it up to his usual standards (three creams, one half packet of sugar), Peter sits down at a small table halfway across the shop, facing Stiles, and Stiles carefully keeps his eyes glued to his homework even as he watches Peter in his peripheral vision. The werewolf takes out a hulking laptop and sets it on his table.

 

That's one of the things Stiles misses about the 2020's: technology. Real, modern, sleek, fast, bendy technology. The fat, heavy laptops of the early 2000's overheat too quickly, and their stiff, unwieldy screens make him wish for the days of the apocalypse. The world might have been ending beneath everyone's very noses, but hey, at least they had actual high-speed internet access.

 

There's a sticker with a logo on it stuck diagonally on Peter's computer. A pine tree on top of a red 'S'. Stanford, Stiles thinks. He doesn't remember Peter ever mentioning going to Stanford, but Peter never really talked about his personal life before the fire, so perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. He wonders why Peter's here in Beacon Hills when he should still be in school. _If_ he should still be in school. Maybe he graduated already. Stiles forgets how old he is. Maybe the guy dropped out. 

 

Peter's eyes meet his, expectant and curious, and Stiles is caught in that gaze, pinned like a butterfly in a collection. He remembers it. He expects Peter to come over and make some witty remark, to make Stiles feel unbalanced and analyzed, to draw Stiles in against his better judgment and make him grateful for giving in, to make Stiles feel valued and important, but none of that happens. Peter just stares, gaging him for one long moment, and then his gaze drops back to his laptop, and Stiles feels tendrils of disappointment sink in. He looks away from Peter's bowed head and down at the math homework in his lap. He shouldn't feel disappointed to have lost Peter's attention; he should feel pleased. This Peter isn't the one he knows, and if Stiles has his way, he never will be.

 

Stiles packs away his homework into his bag, shoulders it, and walks out of the coffee shop, never once looking down as he passes Peter. He turns the corner of the block, out of sight of the coffee shop, walks past the stairs leading up to his apartment, down half the block, then casts a spell to disguise his scent, and walks back to the stairs. No need for Peter to track him home, after all. Not this Peter.

                                                                    

Stiles thinks he'll start driving the car to and from school from now on.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

"What's your name, anyway, 'lunch-buddy'?" Paige asks several days later.

 

Stiles looks up, startled to find Paige initiating the conversation for once. "Scott," Stiles answers. He chose it because it's common and forgettable, but still a name he'll respond to.

 

Paige hums in response, and Stiles thinks that that's that, but then she says, as she finishes writing a sentence in her essay, "Derek's uncle is back. He's staring again."

 

Stiles rests his head in his hands and makes a face. He's already tired of this. "Great," he drawls unenthusiastically. No doubt Peter's listening right now, the narcissist. "Just great," Stiles murmurs, trying to go for annoyed. By the way Paige is looking at him, he doesn't think he succeeded.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Since the whole lunch-buddy thing isn't exactly working out very well, Stiles has taken to spying to see where Derek and Paige are in their relationship. In fact, it's when he's oh so subtly trying to spy on them that a certain someone yanks him into an empty classroom. "Hey-" Stiles starts to whisper-shout, but then the door shuts and someone slams Stiles's face down against a desk.

 

"What do you think you're doing?" Peter's voice hisses in his ear -which, really, fantastic. Stiles thought he'd have at least a few more weeks of time before Peter's interfering streak started acting up.

 

"Jeez," Stiles complains, ignoring the still-human fingernails digging into his scalp. "I transfer to a new school and I'm already being assaulted. Really?"

 

The pressure on the back of his head and neck lessens, and Stiles jerks upward. He dusts himself off with a scowl and looks up.

 

Peter's leaning against one of the desks, his fingertips tracing aimlessly across the surface. He looks up through his eyelashes at Stiles. "You're not a transfer student." He lifts his chin, nostrils flaring, and takes a step forward. Stiles holds his ground. "Your name isn't even Scott, is it?" Peter says, crowding into Stiles's space.

 

Thrown off, Stiles blinks and tries to take a step back, only to nearly trip over the desk that had recently been acquainted with his face. He scratches the back of his neck, spitting, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

 

When Peter's fingers wrap around Stiles wrist. Stiles's pulse leaps, and Peter grins. The werewolf leans in. "You smell like me."

 

Stiles swallows and starts to shake his head, but Peter just leans in even closer, breath hot on Stiles's face. "I like it," he murmurs, and then he's pulling Stiles into a kiss. It's hot and dirty, and before Stiles realizes it Peter's tongue is exploring his mouth. Stiles's thoughts slip away from him. If he was to close his eyes, just for a moment, it would feel like he was home, wouldn't it.

 

He doesn't close his eyes. He won't.

 

Peter pulls back, Stiles's lips chasing after his. He smirks. "What's your name?"

 

Stiles's mouth snaps shut, and he pulls back and swallows, gaze hard and determined. Peter just smirks, one hand sliding down to cup Stiles's tented jeans while the other fists Stiles's hair and tugs his head back. Peter licks a stripe up Stiles's throat. "Tell me," he demands, pressing down on Stiles's pants.

 

Stiles's jaw tightens, and Peter presses down harder, making him gasp.

 

The hand in Stiles's hair slips to the back of his neck, claws biting into Stiles's skin, just shy of drawing blood. "Come on," Peter whispers, lips brushing against the other boy's cheek.

 

Stiles's eyes flutter shut, and he takes a deep breath. He wasn't supposed to close his eyes.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter can practically taste the way the name's going to fall from those lips, soft and reluctant and hungry--

 

But then the boy's shoving Peter away and tripping to the door, desks scraping loudly against the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says one last time, breathless and furious, and God, how Peter wants. And then the boy's gone, slamming the door shut behind him.

 

Peter smiles.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter's outside the distillery spying on the adults when movement flickers out of the corner of his eye. He turns his head to the side and stares into the darkness, and there, at the other end of the distillery, he spots his boy, crouching in the shadows. Peter sniffs the air, but all he smells is forest and dust and the long faded scent of alcohol. He cocks his head to the side. This mystery just keeps getting better and better.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Stiles waits for the packs to leave before he dares to move. He starts to stand up and freezes, wincing as his joints crack. "Jesus," he groans, flexing his calves and rolling his ankles.

 

"That's what happens when you lurk for hours on end," a voice drawls from behind him.

 

"Holy shit!" Stiles jumps up, whipping out a knife and settling forward onto the balls of his feet, his knees slightly bent, one foot shifted forward. He eases slightly at the sight of Peter. "What the hell are you doing here?"

 

Peter raises his eyebrows. "Quid pro quo, dear --sorry, what was your name again?"

 

Stiles's expression flattens, and his stance eases further. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." Did _Silence of the Lambs_ come out yet? He doesn't remember the release date.

 

Peter grins. It's a nice grin. Very white teeth. Much shiny. "Too cheesy?" he asks, sounding genuinely concerned

 

A grin tugs at Stiles's lips in response. He's missed this. "Too cheesy," he confirms. Peter takes a step forward, opening his mouth to speak, but Stiles cuts him off, looking pointedly between Peter's feet and his face. "I have a knife," he tells the werewolf.

 

Peter looks unimpressed. "I have fangs," he says, canines elongating. He takes another step forward, and Stiles steps backward, his back bumping into the wall of the distillery. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

 

Stiles holds the knife threateningly, but he knows he won't use it. Not unless this Peter actually does something dangerous. And after everything the older Peter's done back in his time, Stiles knows this Peter won't do anything. Not unless he thinks Stiles is a threat. And not while Stiles has so much of his attention.

 

Peter reaches out cautiously, slowly, and his fingertips ghost up the blade of the knife. "Wolfsbane infused.... Interesting." Stiles inhales, and he wonders.... This Peter's so much younger than the one he knows, and Stiles can't help but think about how the two Peters are different. Stiles's is, was, older, broken, burnt and hardened inside in more ways than one. This one is younger, obviously, but he's just as manipulative, it seems, and his curiosity now is so much purer, and he's suspicious, but not so suspicious as to murder in the name of 'just in case'.

 

Is it wrong that Stiles misses the older one?

 

Peter's fingers skate down the blade to rest on Stiles's pulse. "What are your thinking about right now?"

 

"Nothing," Stiles snaps, tugging the knife back and slipping it back into its sheath. He pushes past Peter, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

 

Peter walks with him. "You never did tell me your name."

 

Stiles glances at him from the corner of his eye. "You didn't tell me why you were at the distillery. Or at the high school."

 

Peter shrugs. "I was checking in on my investments."

 

"Your investments?" Stiles can't help but ask before mentally beating himself over the head for not keeping his mouth shut.

 

Peter shrugs, smirking. "So what were you doing?"

 

Stiles grins, spying his car in the forest preserve parking lot. "Same as you. Checking in on my investments."

 

Peter drops his head to the side to pointedly side-eye Stiles. "Really?"

 

Stiles grins, returning the look. "Really, really." He reaches his car, an old Impala, and unlocks it, but before he can open it he's being whirled around and slammed up against the door, Peter's hand wrapped around his throat.

 

"I like you," Peter says, voice lowered and eyes burning yellow, "But from now on you're going to stay away from my family, or I'm going to tear you apart."

 

"I can't promise you that," Stiles says, unfazed. This isn't the first time he's been slammed up against something by a werewolf trying to make a point, and it definitely won't be the last.

 

Peter's fingers tighten around his throat, but Stiles doesn't react. The werewolf pulls his face away, eyeing Stiles calculatingly. "Why?"

 

"Because your family's the reason I'm here." Peter's fingers tighten again, and Stiles whispers hoarsely, angrily, "I'm here to save them." His heart rate's even, unchanging.

 

Peter pulls back and loosens his grip until his hand is just resting on Stiles's neck. "What's your name?" he asks again, his voice soft and curious.

 

Stiles side-steps him and opens the car door, smiling softly. He slips into the driver's seat, looking up at Peter. "I can't tell you that."

 

At least, he doesn't think he can.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

"How are you?" Scott asks Paige one day, and something in his tone makes her look up.

 

"I'm fine," she says levelly. She's never seen him so sincere, but he's always been an odd one.

 

She watches as he glances around furtively, eyes lingering on Derek's empty table. Her boyfriend and the other basketball players left school early for a game. "I mean," Scott says, "are you and Derek fine? You haven't... noticed anything... strange?"

 

Oh, he's talking about _that_. Paige snorts lightly. "I notice a lot of strange things. You're one of them," she says, a tiny laugh in her voice.

 

Scott frowns on her, looking slightly guilty. He's not as good at hiding his feelings as he likes to think. She decides to take pity on him. "There are a lot of... strange... things here in Beacon Hills. It's just, no one talks about them. It's probably better that we don't. So you're not crazy, I promise," she says, trying to console him.

 

It doesn't seem to work.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Oh God, it's tomorrow, Stiles realizes. Just this morning, he finally managed to beat Morrell's enchantments and land an eavesdropping spell on Deucalion, and now he's listening in for the first time, still fine-tuning it, and they're already discussing decorum and behavior for tomorrow and Jesus fucking Christ, Stiles is so screwed. They're all screwed. The entire world is screwed.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter wakes up at 4 in the morning, restless and anxious for apparently no reason. 'Apparently' being the key word. There's something off, he knows it. He can feel it in his bones, and he's long learned to trust his instincts.

 

So he gets out of bed, stretches, and listens to his senses, and he finds that something is indeed off.

 

He finds the boy an acre away from the house, picking wolfsbane out of the garden.  Peter hasn't been obsessing over some crazy hunter-boy, has he? Because if he has, he just might have to kill him.... Eyeing the smooth curve of the boy's ass, Peter thinks, maybe he could get by with just torturing him. He really wants to keep this one.

 

He's tempted to tell the boy that he'd do a better job of masking his presence if he would hide the smell of his old tennis shoes as well as his body odor, but he decides to keep that information to himself at the last second. Instead, keeping his distance from the wolfsbane-laden boy, he calls out, "You know, trespassing and stealing are punishable by law."

 

The boy jerks up from his task, eyes wide and wild. There's urgency and frustration in that gaze, and something else Peter finds himself unable to identify. "Not right now," says the boy, his voice strained and desperate.

 

"Oh, I think right now will do just fine," says Peter firmly, advancing on him. "You're on my family's land, collecting something you know is dangerous to us, and I want to know why."

 

The boy freezes, startled. "You're not going to try to stop me?"

 

Peter shrugs, stopping just outside the boy's personal space. "Tell me what you're doing, and then we'll see."

 

The boy looks at him peculiarly, then says, inexplicably, "You should. You _should_ try to stop me."

 

Peter tilts his head to the side, perplexed. "Why? Are you planning to use it against us?"

 

"No!" the boy blurts out, and Peter can hear the truth in his voice and heartbeat. "No, but I --but you, you're not supposed to be this trusting!" He looks down, something painful flashing across his face. "Or, I guess you are, actually. God," he murmurs. Peter watches as a bead of sweat drips down his neck. He'd lick that drop off, given half a chance, but apparently there's something more important going on here. The boy looks back up at him, round eyes pleading. "I have to go," he says quietly, something broken in his voice, and he starts to turn around, as if he can walk away just like that.

 

"Not yet," Peter says, and the boy stops. "Tell me what's going on. What do you need wolfsbane for?"

 

"I--" the boy hesitates, making Peter suspicious. "I don't have time for this," he says, and he starts walking away.

 

Peter darts forward and knocks the kid's feet out from under him, making him drop the wolfsbane as he stumbles and rights himself. Peter circles him, demanding, "Make time."

 

The boy tracks him warily, gaze hardening into something wary and aggressive, something Peter's only seen on the older werewolves with scars that won't heal. "I told you, I'm here to protect your family. I wasn't lying. I know you can tell."

 

"Maybe you're a really good liar," Peter returns evenly. "Either way, you still haven't answered my question."

 

The boy's nostrils flare as he exhales harshly. "There's something that's supposed to happen today," he says through grinding teeth, each word sounding like it's been squeezed out through a juicer. "And I can't let it. So either move out of my way, or I'll make you move myself."

 

Peter halts his circling and gestures grandly for the boy to pass freely. "By all means," he says, thinking to himself, _What's supposed to happen today?_

 

As the boy moves to pick up the wolfsbane, Peter darts in once more, knocking him away from it. He and the boy grapple with each other, but Peter's faster, stronger, and less wildly desperate, whereas the boy's movements are clumsy and uncontrolled. Peter manhandles him up against a tree and presses close, delighting in the feel of the boy's heaving chest against his.

 

Peter peers into angry brown eyes, carefully noting violent, scarlet veins extending closer to the amber and gold-flecked brown iris than they should. "You seem tired," he observes. Exhausted, really. The way the boy glares at him, his whole body tensing and trying to curl in on himself at Peter's words --there's an air of hurt desperation around him, and Peter wants to _know_. He wants to bundle him up and confine him to bed until he's told Peter everything because he _wants_ to. Peter wants to see the release in the boy's eyes as he gives in.

 

Peter buries his nose into the kid's neck and breathes deep, but he's disappointed to find that the scent-concealing charm the boy's been using works well even at so close a distance. He remembers how the boy smelled in the classroom, of forest, dirt, and ink, tinged with the metallic tang of blood. He remembers the stale, fading traces of werewolf clinging to the boy's shirt, of how, for a moment, he could almost swear that scent was his.

 

The boy's shallow breath stutters. He seems so tired. Peter moves away from the crook of his neck to nip at the boy's lips, and smiles when the boy's lips twitch in response. Leaning his forehead against the boy's, their lips brushing, Peter says, "Tell me what you're going to do, and maybe I can help."

 

For a moment, the boy watches him, the corners of his eyes scrunched up slightly in inward debate, and Peter thinks _finally_ , but then the boy sighs and knocks his head back against the tree, muttering to himself in exasperation, "I swear to God--". He makes some complicated hand gestures, and suddenly Peter's head is pounding and he's collapsing to his knees, the boys hands cradling his head. The world begins to go black around him, and the last thing he thinks before he loses consciousness is _damn_ , he really needs to learn more about magic.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Stiles knocks out Deucalion and his pack with a weak wolfsbane gas and goes to the distillery when Deucalion promised to meet Gerard.

 

There, he hides in the rafters, carrying an old, bulky video-recorder, and he films Gerard as he kills his own men with --jesus christ, is that a club embedded with werewolf teeth? What a sick fuck.

 

The gas Gerard's using, ultra-pepper spray or whatever the hell it is, begins to creep upward, towards Stiles, and fuck, Stiles had not taken this into account. He starts to crawl backwards, but it's slow-going work, trying to be quiet enough not to catch Gerard's attention and careful enough not to drop the recorder or fall off. It's too slow-going, and he ends up getting gas in his eyes and in his throat, and it's more than just ultra-pepper spray, because his whole body begins to quake and spasm, the pain of it like electricity in his veins.

 

He leaves the recorder on top of one of the rafters, out of sight from anyone on the floor, and he prays Gerard doesn't think to look for it. He gives up on all sense of stealth and climbs frantically down and away, and he's fast enough to keep himself from plummeting to his death, although he does fall on the way down. He hears a crack, and agony rips through his leg, making him faint.

 

He wakes up in a chair, his broken leg screaming in pain, his veins on fire, and the gas spraying directly into his face. His eyes burn and he scrunches them shut.

 

"Finally, you're awake," Gerard says jovially over the hiss of the gas, like an evil Santa Claus, and Stiles groans. Not again.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

 

Peter wakes up on the forest floor with the worst hangover in the history of hangovers --except it's not a hangover, he reminds himself, because it's from the boy's goddam spell, not from doing shots. In the distance, he hears Talia call for Laura, so all must be well at home. He sniffs the air and smells fresh pancakes --god,  he could kill for some of those right about now-- and the lingering scent of sweaty tennis shoes.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Stiles wants to die. He's wanted to die before, but this time is different. This time, he wants to die because the sooner he does, the less chance Argent has of torturing the secret of the recorder out of him. If he dies now, then Argent will leave the warehouse empty-handed, and when the werewolves check the warehouse (ha, werehouse), somehow they'll find it, or maybe Peter will; he seems determined enough to discover Stiles's secrets. Either way, someone will find it --they have to-- and they'll know about Gerard, and the future will be different.

 

Gerard's moved on from beating him bloody --literally, Stiles is pretty sure he can see his one of his kidneys peeking out through one of the gashes in his shirt-- to breaking his fingers. He's already broken both of Stiles's pinkies.

 

"Where did you come from?" Gerard asks.

 

"My mother's uterus," Stiles answers spitefully, and Gerard snaps his left-hand ring finger.

 

Stiles screams. He's not ashamed to scream. He learned a long time ago that holding the pain in is useless and stupid. Better to let it out and let your captors know they're succeeding at hurting you rather than to make it worse by holding it in and encouraging them to become more creative.

 

God, he wants to die.

 

There's a spell he could cast. There's a lot of spells actually. There are so many ways to kill one's self with magic, accidentally or on purpose, that it's actually kind of hilarious. Now, if Stiles could just push back the pain for a moment, just a moment of concentration--

 

"We can go on like this as long as you like," Gerard says, and promptly snaps Stiles's right-hand ring finger.

 

Stiles wants to die, but he can't.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter leaves Argent on the floor unconscious and frantically drags the boy out, trying to block out his screams. He leans the boy against the distillery wall. "I'm sorry," Peter says as he pulls off the cloth wrapped around his mouth. It was a horrible gas mask; he's already feeling light-headed, but at least it gave him time to knock Argent out and save the boy. At least, he hopes he's saved the boy. The blood, moaning, and erratic heartbeat are all pretty bad signs. He pulls out his flip phone and speed-dials Talia.

 

The boy coughs hoarsely, eyes fluttering. "Peter?" he moans. "What-" he breaks out into a coughing fit.

 

Peter smiles. "You know my name."

 

Somehow, throughout all the coughing, the boy manages to roll his eyes.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Stiles wakes up to the feeling of fingers carding through his hair. He feels like he's been hit by a truck. He groans.

 

The fingers pause, and the pain fades away.

 

Stiles lets himself sink into the bed, warm and comfortable, and the fingers brushing through his hair lull him back to sleep.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter and Talia watch as Deaton dabs the sweat away from the feverish boy's forehead with a wet wash cloth. "Peter, if you could give Talia and myself a moment..."

 

Smoothing his expression into one hopefully more trustworthy than anger, Peter says, "I want to stay."

 

Talia looks at him, gaging, then after a long moment, she looks away and says to Deaton, "Anything you want to say to me about the boy you can say in front of Peter."

 

Deaton gives Peter a long look, but then says at length, "This boy's a powerful druid, too powerful for his conceivable age. It doesn't make sense," he says, looking up at Talia.

 

"Is he older than he looks, then? An aging spell perhaps?" Talia asks.

 

Deaton shakes his head. "This is his proper age, and he's not a spirit possessing this body or anything similar to that, but there is no possible way someone his age can be this powerful or controlled."

 

"Are you saying that because you don't think teenagers can be competent, or because it's physically impossible?" Peter asks with a bit of a bite in his tone.

 

"Because it's physically impossible," Deaton assures him. He looks back at Talia. "This boy's a paradox. I'm afraid that's all I can tell you."

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Next time Stiles wakes up, he's interrogated by Talia Hale.

 

She is absolutely terrifying. What makes her terrifying, though, is not her threats, which he completely believes, but her compassion. There's something about her that makes him want to tell her everything. So he does. And the world doesn't end. She doesn't think he's crazy or a danger to society.

 

She just hugs him and says he's welcome to stay as long as he likes.

 

Stiles worships the very ground she walks on.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter's asleep at his bedside. Frankly, it's adorable. But not adorable enough to keep Stiles from getting up and using the bathroom.

 

When he slips back into bed and he's just on the verge of falling asleep once more, he hears Peter say, "You never did tell me your name."

 

Stiles smiles. "It's Stiles," he mumbles, and then he's out.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Stiles has faced down crazed hunters, werewolves, kanimas, demons, wraiths, sea serpents, and weird mutant komodo-dragon-things, amongst an assortment of other dangers, such as the frickin' apocalypse. So it just figures that a staircase is the thing to finally defeat him.

 

His leg isn't broken, just fractured, so that's nice. Walking's still hard, though, and crutches are a pain in the ass on a good day. Especially now because his fingers really are broken, not fractured. It makes holding onto the crutches even more of a pain in the ass.

 

Stiles stares down the stairs and bemoans his fate.

 

"What are you doing?" Peter asks.

 

Oh, great, his favorite stalker's here to witness his embarrassment. "Just admiring the view," Stiles deadpans.

 

Peter looks down at the bottom of the staircase then back up to Stiles, and that insufferable smirk begins to spread across his face.

 

"Oh, shut up," Stiles tells him.

 

"Why don't you just magic yourself down?" Peter asks, picking at his fingernails.

 

"Do I look like Harry Potter to you?" Stiles snaps.

 

Peter's smirk widens. "You could pull off the hair." So what if brushing his hair wasn't his first priority this morning? He's wounded here!

 

"Shut up. And who says I wanna go downstairs, anyway? I never said I wanna go downstairs. I'm just enjoying the view. Pondering the unanswerable questions of the universe. Gettin' my inner philosopher goin'. Speaking to my inner Plato, debating with my inner Aristot--"

 

"Oh my god," Peter mutters, and next thing Stiles knows he's being heaved over Peter's shoulder and carried down the stairs.

 

"Hey, put me down!" Stiles says, eyeing Peter's ass just below his forehead. It's not a bad view if you don't mind the bouncing, which kind of hurts his nose, but whatever.

 

"Put you down?" Peter asks in amusement before stopping in the middle of the staircase. "Okay." And he dumps Stiles (gently, because Stiles is wounded here) onto the stairs.

 

Stiles sits down with his head in his hands, looking up at Peter and definitely not pouting.

 

"Oh, I'm sorry," drawls Peter as he leans Stiles's crutches against the banister. "Would you prefer bridal-style?"

 

Stiles glares. "I saved all your lives, you know," he grumbles.

 

Peter stares down at him. "I'm sure you did. Maybe someday you'll even explain how and why."

 

Stiles looks away. He's told Talia, but he's not ready to tell anyone else. Unburying his past once already has taken its toll on him. He keeps having nightmares.

 

His stomach grumbles, and he looks back up at Peter, "Help me downstairs?" When Peter starts bending down as if to scoop him up, Stiles scoots away and says pointedly, " _Just_ help."

 

Peter sighs and helps Stiles up, wrapping an arm around his waist and saying, "Fine, _hop_ your way down. Because that's so much more dignified."

 

Stiles deigns to ignore that last remark. He lays his arm over Peter's shoulders and points forward. "Commence hopping!" he commands.

 

"You're like a rabbit," Peter mutters as they make their way down.

 

"Oh, go fetch a stick."

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Living with the Hales is nice, Stiles thinks. He gets the guest bedroom all to himself, but there's always someone around the house to talk to. Derek and Laura's baby cousins visit sometimes, screaming and giggling as they run around the house. They love Stiles and his tricks. Sometimes Paige visits. She and Derek really are just as bad as Scott and Allison, but instead of being star-crossed lovers, Paige has been welcomed into the Hale throng with mostly open arms. She and Laura even formed some sort of evil pact, it looks like. Stiles thinks they're going to take over the world.

 

It's nice not to have to hide his magic. The Hales like it, encourage it, even, and Stiles can finally relax. He likes the faded leather couch in the living room. It's firm but well-worn, scratched from years of abuse at the hands of clawed children. The family pictures on the wall, the shoes strewn around the doorway, and the smell of fresh bread coming from the kitchen make the house seem alive and comforting. It reminds Stiles of his childhood, when he and his mother and father all lived together, brief as that period was.

 

The thought, familiar as it is, makes him ache every time. He's used to it by now.

 

"Stiles," says Laura, making him jump. He didn't realize she was there. She looks at him, concerned, and Stiles wonders what she sees on his face. "Do you wanna help me and Derek in the kitchen? We're making treats for Easter tomorrow."

 

Stiles nods. "Sure thing."

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter's outside reading a book when Stiles finds him. "This house-arrest is killing me," Stiles says. "Take me somewhere."

 

Peter looks up, raising an eyebrow. "I can take you right here if you want."

 

"Maybe later," Stiles jokes even as his cheeks heat up and warmth curls in his gut. "But I just really gotta get out of here." Peter looks him up and down, eyes lingering on his cast, and when he begins to look unsure, Stiles snaps, "I'm not gonna break, okay? Just --come on, Peter. I can't stay cooped up all the time. If you don't drive me somewhere, I'll walk downtown myself."

 

"That's two and a half miles," Peter says.

 

"Good. I could do with a nice long walk."

 

Peter sighs and closes his book. "Fine."

 

Peter drives them to the nearby downtown of Willow Springs, which actually consists of whole street blocks compared to the single street of downtown Beacon Hills. Stiles demands the greasiest burgers they can find and double chocolate chip ice cream, because, hell, if he's gonna go through the pain of being a teenager all over again, he might as well take advantage of his newfound metabolism while he's at it. They walk around, people-watching and checking out odd shops. Stiles suggests they go laser-tagging, but one look at his leg and Peter vetoes that option.

 

They get a few odd looks. At first, Stiles thinks it's because of all his casts and puffy new scars; he probably looks like a victim of a tiger mauling. But a few of the lookers seem to recognize Peter, giving him distanced, judgmental glances. Stiles glares at them.

 

Peter notices as soon as he starts to get tired, despite how much Stiles tries to hide it, and asks if he wants to go home. Stiles thinks of being cooped up all over again and says no, of course not, so Peter decides they're going to watch a movie, and no, just because Stiles _says_ he can handle more walking does not mean it's true.

 

They see Pirates of the Caribbean, and it is even more perfect than Stiles remembers. 

 

"So I know I look like Frankenstein's monster," Stiles says in the car on the way home, "but that doesn't explain the weird looks _you_ got."

 

"A few of the people we saw know me. And they know I'm gay," Peter says too casually, keeping his eyes on the road. "They see me walking around with my hands all over a teenage boy eating ice cream --they're gonna make a few assumptions."

 

"Like what, that you're a sexual predator?" Stiles asks, grinning.

 

Peter just nods his head a little.

 

"How old are you, anyway?"

 

"Twenty-one."

 

"Psh," says Stiles, rolling his head over to side-eye Peter. "You're the one who should be worried. I'm thirty-five."

 

Stiles expects the car to come screeching to a halt, but instead Peter just breathes in deeply, brakes carefully, and pulls over to the side of the road before looking Stiles dead in the eye and saying, "What."

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter's ignoring him. Stiles isn't exactly sure why. Maybe he's pissed Stiles didn't tell him sooner. Maybe he thinks Stiles was using his future-information to seduce him. Maybe the age difference freaks him out -although, really? After everything he put Stiles through in the future? It better not be the age difference, asshole. Maybe he thinks Stiles was playing him the whole time. Who knows?

 

Stiles figures he just needs time, and it sort of works, except not at all.

 

After a week and several concerned glances from the rest of the Hales and Paige, Stiles goes up to Peter, who's sitting on the roof, of all places, working on his Stone Age laptop. "I'm really sorry I didn't tell you sooner," Stiles says.

"You're supposed to be clever," Peter says to his laptop.

 

"Okay, fine, I'm not sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but... I'm sorry you're mad I didn't tell you sooner?" he tries.

 

The laser-powered glare Peter hits him with tells Stiles that that was the wrong thing to say.

 

"Okay, that's a lie, too," Stiles says, words coming out in a rush. "I just... I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry for whatever it was, if that helps? I just, I miss talking to you, Peter, and I--"

 

"Who do you see when you look at me, Stiles?" Peter asks, eyes on his laptop once again.

 

"You," says Stiles, brow furrowing. He's feeling really stupid right now. He knows he's missing something, but he's not sure what. "Just you," he says, still unsure what Peter's getting at.

 

" _Just_ me?" Peter asks, meeting his eyes, and there's something honest and hopeful in his gaze that Stiles is afraid to touch. He's never seen Peter like this before.

 

And then it hits him, what Peter's asking. Oh.

 

"Just you," Stiles says. "No one else."

 

Peter doesn't say anything, doesn't look up, just saves his little Word document or whatever the hell it is --these laptops suck, did he mention that-- and Stiles waits to see what he'll say.

 

At last, the slow-ass laptop monster shuts down, and Peter closes it up and turns to Stiles. "Wanna get lunch?"

 

Stiles's mouth drops open, thrown by the change of conversation, "Uh, yeah, sure."

 

Peter snorts and stands up, tugging Stiles with him and drawing him in by the waist. "You're supposed to be clever," Peter tells him again.

 

"And you're supposed to be good with words, but I didn't hear much talking from you this week," Stiles retorts. He wraps his arms around Peter's neck and makes a move for Peter's lips.

 

Peter pulls back, saying, "Mmm, maybe later. I'm hungry." And then he walks away.

 

"Hey!" says Stiles, but in the end he just ends up following Peter and getting lunch, too.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Peter's in the living room working on Calculus homework when Stiles walks in and swipes his Reese's cup. "Hey!" Peter shouts and promptly tackles him to the couch.

 

Stiles blinks up at him. "Woah," he says around a mouthful of chocolate, peanut buttery goodness.

 

Peter glares down at him. "Those are my favorite."

 

Stiles swallows and smacks his lips cheekily. "So?"

 

Peter's lips twitch upward. "I don't think you understand, Stiles. Those are my _favorite_." He leans in, mouth brushing against Stiles's. "I want it back."

 

And then his lips are attacking Stiles's, and his tongue is thrusting into Stiles's mouth, sweeping every corner of it, and Stiles's hands are buried in his hair, pulling him closer, and Peter's grinding down, their cocks hardening against each other, and-

 

"OH MY GOD, MY EYES!"

 

Peter pauses and pulls away, looking up. Derek's standing in the doorway, the whites of his eyes showing, and Laura's grinning like a shark. "Go away," Peter tells them.

 

Derek bolts up the staircase without a second thought, and Laura eyes Stiles before looking up at Peter. She nods at him in approval. "Nice one."

 

Peter growls. "Go. Away."

 

Laura smirks and saunters into the kitchen, leaving her bag by the door.

 

Peter sighs and looks back down at Stiles. "Sorry about that."

 

Stiles's smile is practically glowing. "It's no problem."

 

 Peter dips down to kiss him again, and Stiles comes up to meet him. This time it's long and slow, Peter licking the chocolate out of his mouth, and Stiles grabs his ass to tug him closer, his breath hitching as their hard-ons bump against each other, blocked by their fucking jeans.

 

Someone slams the fridge shut in the kitchen, and Stiles breaks away. He's never really been into the whole exhibitionism thing. Especially around family. "Upstairs," he breathes.

 

Peter looks down at him, smiling, and says, "Upstairs." He gets off the couch, tugging Stiles with him.

 

 

And then they have sex. 

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Months later, they're lying in bed, and Peter asks, forehead pressed against Stiles's. "Do you miss him?"

 

Stiles's eyes dart away. "...Sometimes. But..."

 

Peter waits patiently.

 

Stiles breathes in deeply and meets Peter's gaze, pressing against him more closely, his hand resting against the werewolf's chest. "We were never... anything, not anything real. And he was... he wasn't sane."

 

"I'm not sane," Peter can't help but say.

 

Stiles grins like they share a secret. "Yeah, I know," he says, laughter in his voice. He sobers quickly. "But you're.... There was something inside of him that was dead, always dead, even when he came back, and you...." Stiles kisses him, soft and close-mouthed. "You're alive." He stares at Peter in wonder, almost as if he's still in disbelief.

 

Peter closes the gap between them and kisses him, soft and achingly slow, thorough and exact.

 

When the kiss ends, Stiles pulls back and looks Peter in the eyes. "If I had to do it all over again, I would," he promises, voice warm and firm, heart rate steady.

 

Peter smiles. "I know."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fucking time travel

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments feed my muse. 
> 
> My tumblr is [perceptions3key](http://perceptions3key.tumblr.com/). Stop by. Say hi. Ask questions. Confide in me. Sell your soul. Enjoy the fandom and bad jokes.


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